Summer Days
by Madeleine Van Helsing
Summary: (Hinted Johnlock) A client wants them to look after her daughter while she finds protection in France. On Baker Street, who will Summer grow up to be?


Summer Days

"We have a client today."

"Really? Unfaithful marriage?"

"No." John looked up at the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock continued to arrange then rearrange his fingers on the violin strings. After a few seconds, he took the instrument from under his chin, laying it in its case, and swinging the bow in the air as he sat down.

"What do they want then?" John was curious. He always liked to know as much as possible before hand, so that he wasn't left behind when the case began.

"A young woman on the run from criminals. She didn't say what she needed when she rang, but probably protection. She'll be here at one." John nodded and went back to his paper. It was their last ordinary morning for a long time.

"What's your name?"

"I can't tell you."

"Why have you brought an infant?" The young blond woman looked down at her sleeping daughter.

"I need you to protect her." Silence.

"_Us?_" asked John, not sure if he'd heard right.

"I'm going to my husband in France. We'll get protection for ourselves, and then come back for her. Don't give her away. I'll be back to this _very _room, and she _will_ be waiting here for me."

"What makes you think we'll agree to this?" questioned Sherlock, looking slightly disgusted.

"She's called Summer," came the reply.

"Why did you agree?" Greg waited for an answer, but it never arrived. John was cooing over Summer again.

"Suicide. Nothing to see," sighed Sherlock, walking past Greg to ruffle Summer's, the John's hair. Greg frowned. This was all _quite_ weird.

"I want to know about the baby," he told them both.

"Summer?" Sherlock looked up, his eyes alight.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Greg couldn't really reply.

"Murder?"

"Yes."

"Suffocation?"

"Yes." John smiled as Sherlock and Summer worked on another cold case. Anderson had told them that crime scenes weren't the right places for six-year-olds, but Sherlock had put an arm around her and claimed that she made the sun shine on all the clues. Summer made the point of demonstrating the victim's stab on Anderson with her fist, winding him. He never seemed to bring up the subject again.

"Johnny?"

"Yes love?"

"Sherlock says I've found all the best clues. That's three out of twelve so far." She was counting all the things she was better at than him. It really demolished John, but he didn't let her know. He told Sherlock when she was asleep, and they were in bed. Sherlock always made him feel better.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock dashed out into the living room, eyes bright with worry and curiosity.

"Summer, darling. What's wrong?" Summer pouted at him, widening her dull blue eyes and puffing out her round, pale cheeks. John stifled a giggle at Sherlock's face when he realised what it was.

"Go to your room, and don't come out until he's gone." She pulled something out of her pocket, slipping it under the cushion on the chair, and then ran off to her room with a sinister grin.

"Hello Mycroft."

"Hello, brother mine." He walked over to the chair, removing the whoopee-cushion before sitting down. Summer began to wail.

"She is eleven years old, Sherlock. Control your daughter."

"She's my daughter too," complained John, only to be ignored.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" asked his brother.

"Mummy and Daddy want to meet Summer."

"No," said Sherlock without hesitation, but Summer was there in an instant.

"_Please_, Myc, _please_. I've been here for a decade, and I've not met _any_ of your family. Please, I _really_ want to meet your parents. Tell them to let me, Johnny!" John smiled and turned to Sherlock.

"No," he said.

"Do you know who it was?"

"No, dear."

"The brother, Max. I've told you at least twenty times, and you still don't know that story, Mrs Holmes."

"No, dear." Summer jumped up and danced across the room to Mr Holmes.

"Now that I'm two years a teenager, could I try beer? Sherlock says no, and Johnny drinks all of his within three days after buying a twelve-pack. Please?"  
"No."

"The girl is fourteen, dearest. Buy here a beer."

"Thank you Mrs Holmes."

"No." Summer glanced over to her fathers. They sat with their fingers entwined, whispering in each other's ears. Mycroft sat nearby, frowning at them.

"You know, Mr Holmes? Your sons are so much like you." All three Mr Holmes' turned and glared at her. Mycroft stopped bringing her pound coins. Sherlock only showed her cold cases. John bought her a beer.

"What do you mean 'no'?" Dim blue eyes glared from beneath light brown hair. The blond se3venteen-year-old only crossed her arms.

"I mean what I say." She pouted like she always had, but it didn't make John smile, like usual.

"Let her stay," he pleaded. Sherlock refused to beg.

"Johnny and Sherlock look after me. And Myc, and Mr and Mrs Holmes. And Mrs Hudson."  
"Well, not anymore. It broke my heart losing you, and now I'm getting you back."

"It'll break _my_ heart losing Sherlock and Johnny, and brake theirs losing me."

"Tough." Her mother took her away. Besides a post card when she got to France, they never heard from her again.

"Client today. Didn't give any details."

"After lunch?"

"Yes." Sherlock began playing his violin again.

The client had long blond hair, pale skin and dull blue eyes. She was only a teenager and held a leather-bound book close to her chest, smiling shyly.

"Name?"

"Shirley-Joan."

"Surname?" The girl shook her head.

"What do you need?"

"I think... I _know_ you knew my mother. She died last week, and wanted me to give you this." She passed Sherlock the book. It was very familiar. On it was printed 'Diary', but swirly hand-writing had renamed it 'Summer Days'. Sherlock looked at John. John looked at their client.

"I think we have a few things to talk about. Would you like some tea?"


End file.
